and
distracted by soft music, by
sunlight
and clouds and rumors of god,
these
small noises of wars fought
in
distant lands, of falling houses and
sleeping
children, hands cold on the
steering
wheel or on the trigger of
the
gun, ideas of escape, motion, gentle
hills
rolling down to deep blue oceans,
and i
am here to tell you these things
that
may or may not be, and i am here
to
explain that nothing can be explained,
and i
am sorry for your father’s cancer
and i
am sorry for your grandfather’s
suicide,
but quietly, the sound of my
voice
too much in this wide open
field,
the pain of memory everywhere,
and
when your lover tells you she’s
drowning
what she means is that
you’re
the sea and when your
children
run away what they want
you to
believe in is the smothering
weight
of failure
what
they want to punish you for
is
never quite spoken out loud
No comments:
Post a Comment